


The Warbler in Speedy's Café

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, But then so is Mycroft and Reader and Greg and John, Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Glee References, He's also flirtatious and mischievous, Helium balloons, Hot Chocolate, Mistletoe, Moments of self-hatred, Multi, Mycroft calls Reader his warbler, Mycroft is a charmer, Navigating relationships, Reader is Mrs. Hudson's niece, Sexual References, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Singer Reader, Songfic, cafe romance, doubts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 07:31:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8615143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: Songs, compliments, hot chocolate and a little light flirting help bring Mycroft and you together one Christmas. But is the relationship you've started built to last?





	1. Baby It's Cold Outside

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is the first Christmas related story I'll be posting this year. This one has three chapters and then I've got two oneshots, which I'll be putting up over the next few weeks. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy them and thank you as ever for your support. :) It is much appreciated. :)

Mycroft Holmes leaves his brother’s flat that Monday feeling as dispirited as a child whose just received something that they don’t want for Christmas. He shuffles out of the black door that has a wreath full of pine cones and a red bow affixed to it with no more than a little noise in the two-inch snow as he carries his umbrella. The white flakes still fall and they coat the shoulders of the mid-length dark coat he’s wearing over his pinstripe, grey three-piece suit and blue tie with black dots fixed together with silver tie pin. They've already made his brittle auburn hair damp and he feels glad for the extra warmth that his dark leather gloves and brown scarf provide him with as he moves carefully across the pavement towards where the gleaming black car is waiting for him. His breath hangs in the air, forming a cloud of mist as it does so and he’s almost upon the car and inside it to greater comfort when the door of Speedy’s café-the interior of which is decorated with bits of tinsel and sprigs of holly for the festive season-opens with a tingling clang and a voice, a pure ethereal voice like none he has ever heard before and which makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end floats out of it, drifting past the couple whom are just exiting the café, bundled up in their winter coats. As Mycroft turns his head though he barely pays them any attention, not looking at them and assessing them as he usually would. For the voice is all that he can concentrate on. _“O Holy night! The stars are brightly shining.”_

 

He drifts towards the café window and peers in. A grey stage has been built at the back of it and over the heads of the few seated patrons he can see you. Your h/c hair is draped down across your shoulders, your cheeks are lightly flushed, both from the singing and the cold, and your hands are cupped around the microphone that is on its stand just in front of you. You’re bedecked in a black jacket, white t-shirt with blue pendent hanging around your neck and dark trousers and although the clothes are all very normal as are you probably Mycroft can’t take his eyes off you. Your own eyes are shut however and he wishes that they were open so that he could see what colour they are. His brain kicks in and begins to analyse this new subject. It points things out like you’re Mrs. Hudson’s niece, a musician and can often be found sitting on a stool and playing an acoustic guitar. Tonight however it’s just the microphone and you and Mycroft finds that all the little notes his brain helpfully supply him with rather than adding to a fuller picture of someone like they usually do just get in the way and effect his concentration on the song-which he can only hear as a radiating hum now the door is shut-and you. He shakes them off irritably like the snow upon his shoulders just as soon as you open your eyes. The sight of their e/c colour makes a breath escape him and his chest feels tight when they land on him almost at once. He sees your lips almost falter on a note and the way that you shift your position. But it is only when a blush creeps to your cheeks, staining them like the red of a candy cane, which has just been licked, that Mycroft feels that pull towards you even more. He steps closer to the glass, putting a gloved hand there, his fingers slightly bent. You flush even more and hurriedly avert your eyes. 

 

Mind made up now Mycroft drops his hand from the window with all the authority of someone in power, turns and marches inside. He feels instantly grateful for having done such a thing when the power of your song fills him up, sending goose pimples to his skin. He slips his umbrella into the holder that’s by the door and goes towards the counter, which is lined with gold tinsel. Since no one else has come in there’s no queue. Still Mycroft allows his gaze to half slide to you once he’s ordered a coffee and something purrs inside him when he sees you looking away from him hurriedly. The blush on your face becomes even more evident. 

 

His order made he takes it to one of the side tables on the left and deposits it there, sitting down as he fixes his attention on you even more. He doesn’t even have to turn to do so because he’s facing you perfectly. He hardly stirs his coffee his eyes are focused on you so much and as he raises the wide mug to his lips he very nearly burns himself. Letting out a soft curse he looks up at you apologetically when he hears you falter in your song, but your eyes quickly drift away from him. 

 

Once you’ve finished, _‘O Holy Night,’_ there’s a smattering of light applause, which Mycroft adds to, before seeing that you’re done for the night he gets up and makes his way across to you. You look surprised at his sudden appearance, having no more than put the microphone stand off to the side when you find him in front of you. 

 

Mycroft clicks his heels together smartly, offers you a quick bow and takes your hand in his gloved one. He raises it to his lips as he keeps his eyes on you and his attentiveness, along with the old-fashioned manner of his actions leaves the whole of you feeling warm. You swallow and look off to the side. 

 

Mycroft smiles as if you’re most amusing to him, before he lowers your hand delicately in between you but still keeps hold of it. “Your name?” he murmurs. 

 

“F/N,” you look at him warily. He still looks at you expectantly though and you inwardly chide yourself for not acting more confidently. “F/N L/N.” You swallow. 

 

“Ah,” he says in a voice of awed mysteriousness, “A beautiful name for a beautiful lady.” You blush. 

 

“Erm,” you say, feeling a pressure to respond when those blue eyes refuse to leave you, “Uh”-

 

“Are you new to this area?” Mycroft rescues you, knowing the answer already, but too understanding that it will surely help to relax you. 

 

To his relief your face clears at once. “In a way,” you nod, “My parents live north just on the outskirts, but I er, I don’t know if you know Mrs. Hudson next door?” Mycroft smiles, but doesn’t say anything. “Well, anyway,” you say, looking all the more befuddled at him not saying a thing, “She’s my aunt.” 

 

“I see,” Mycroft replies, “In that case you must have run into my brother?” he asks. 

 

“Your _brother?”_ you question in a high-pitched tone. 

 

“Yes. Forgive me, did I not introduce myself earlier?” he asks, and you get the sense from the twinkle that’s in his eye that though he prefers to appear as a smartly dressed gentleman he’s a mischievous scoundrel at heart who knows full well that he hasn’t introduced himself already. “I'm Mycroft Holmes.” His thumb swipes against your knuckle and the touch as well as the soft crackling of his leather glove makes you shiver. 

 

“Mycroft Holmes,” you murmur, “Then you must be”-

 

“The older, vastly wiser and more good looking brother of Sherlock Holmes. I'm sure you’ll agree?” he smiles at you roguishly and your heart flutters like a moth trapped against a curtain. 

 

Still your personality makes you tug your hand free from his. You put it on your hip consideringly instead for a moment, whilst you tilt your head to one side. “Hmm”-

 

“Count me insulted Miss L/N-it is Miss isn't it?” You nod, thinking that if he’s anything like that whirlwind of a brother of his then he must already know such a thing. Despite all that though Mycroft’s eyes only seem to grow more intense as they look at you. “Insulted that you could possibly think my brother’s often messy appearance finer than my own pristine one.”

 

You allow your eyes to drink him in again. “Well,” you conclude, “You _do_ look smart.”

 

 _“Yes?”_ Mycroft prompts. 

 

You put your other hand on your hip. “You want _more?”_ you exclaim and Mycroft chuckles. You hop off the stage and brush against him, looking back at him over your shoulder flirtatiously. “Perhaps I’ll be able to think of another compliment if you come this way again,” you say, “I'm performing here every evening this week, whilst I stay with my aunt.” With that message sent you take your leave. 

 

Mycroft smiles at your invitation. 

 

*

 

Mycroft returns to Speedy’s every night and the workers at the café have started to tease you and call him your number one fan. That makes you blush. Mycroft listens to _‘O Holy Night,’_ in full that second night along with many others, including renditions of _‘Silent Night’_ and _‘Merry Christmas Darling.’_ Your eyes keep flicking to him during that last one and Mycroft feels smugger than ever at the radiant blush that fills your face each time you do so. That night, having forgotten your water, most likely deliberately Mycroft suspects, you bounce to his table in between songs and pull a face after you sip at his coffee. 

 

“Urgh, the cinnamon hot chocolate’s much better,” you tell him. 

 

“Not for my waistline,” he quips. 

 

“You’re thin enough,” you comment, “And yes,” you add with a bit of a grin, leaning across and placing your hands on his shoulders as you whisper into his ear, “That is your compliment for tonight.” Aroused by the feel of your soft breath so close to him and tickling at his hair, not to mention your delicate hands touching him Mycroft swings his head. Too quick for him however you pull back before your lips can join and walk backwards a couple of steps, smiling at him coquettishly, before you carry on with your set list. 

 

Still, that starts a trend off even more. Mycroft will order a cinnamon hot chocolate shortly after he arrives and in between songs you’ll come over and sip at it, leaving the rest of it to him when it gets too cold. He finds this most amusing. Then, once your performance is complete, you’ll join him at his table where you’ll exchange a few words. He’ll follow you to stand on the pavement outside 221B, and then, if you haven’t done so already, which a lot of the time you haven’t-you do seem to like to keep him waiting and that’s another thing that he finds delicious about you-you’ll tell him his compliment of the night. So far apart from being smartly dressed and thin enough he’s been told that he has good time keeping. 

 

“Good time keeping? I'm afraid that doesn’t count my dear,” he’d replied on that third night as his feet and yours had both frozen a little in the snow for the greater good of the game you’re playing. 

 

“Does it not? You’re very funny Mr. Holmes.”

 

He’d taken that as his compliment and the following night you tell him that he’s very thoughtful when he orders another cinnamon hot chocolate after his usual one when he sees that your throat is getting dry. There is not much standing about on the pavement that night. He pushes a packet of throat sweets into your hands that he carries around for himself for emergencies and bundles you into 221B, telling you to stay warm and rest. He does all of this so fast that he doesn’t even straighten the door knocker as he usually would. 

 

“Oh, but I can’t take a night off,” you cry at his implication, “I promised that I’d fill the entertainment for all of this week since Sherlock discovered that Lady Gaga tribute act was a criminal.”

 

Mycroft doesn’t tell you that she’d been a prostitute as well as a petty thief, thinking that information too much for your delicate ears. Instead he says, “Nothing can be more important than the preservation of that beautiful voice of yours.” You flush so devastatingly well at that, that Mycroft feels brave enough to kiss you on the cheek. You swallow a couple of times, let out a little squeak and hurriedly withdraw inside, closing the door on him a moment later. Mycroft stares at the spot where you’d once been for a moment, before he finally straightens the door knocker absent-mindedly. 

 

That same Thursday night Mycroft reflects that although his time with you had been just as pleasant as every other had-though the matter of your throat does worry him-he now feels a distinct pressure for more. After all you’ve only got one night of performance left and then it will be Christmas and you’ll be going home on Boxing Day. He feels worried that he might not be able to see you after your final stint at Speedy’s. It might not be appropriate for him to drop around on Christmas Day. Even if he made some excuse about wanting to see Sherlock his brother would not buy it and be sure to make some comment that would be inappropriate to you. No, tomorrow’s his last chance he thinks, and he spends the rest of his time awake coming up with a plan to ensure that your presence will be continued in his life. 

 

He takes a manila folder with him to Speedy’s that Christmas Eve night and pretends to be perusing it on occasion, whilst you sing to the small amount of patrons. Thankfully your voice seems to be lasting-due to no small part to him. He’d gotten Anthea to drop off a hamper full of goodies including lemon tea, a better range of throat sweets and things like a facial mask and candles, which he’d hoped would encourage you to relax. You've already thanked him profusely for it-and you sound just as unearthly and haunting as you always have. 

 

Your voice all by itself fills up every inch of the café, moves around all the chair legs and tables, finds every corner of hidden dust and sends it vibrating. 

 

He smiles at you as you take your first break, wanting a sip of hot chocolate. You’re wearing a black cocktail dress tonight with thin tights and heels of the same colour. If you didn't look so pretty then Mycroft would have felt tempted to tell you off for not wearing something warmer. 

 

Once you’ve taken your sip of hot chocolate-Mycroft watches the line that bulges in your neck as you swallow-you lower the mug and let out a little happy breath once you fix your eyes on him. He’s wearing a white shirt with a black suit and maroon tie. “Working tonight?” you nod at the folder. 

 

“Just a little something that needs to be concluded before tomorrow,” he smiles indulgently at you. He’s given far more genuine smiles since he’s met you and he’s found that his muscles have been rather aching because of it. But, as he sees that something troubling is crossing your face he reaches over and pulls the cinnamon hot chocolate out of your hands and back down to the table, so that you won’t spill it. “Don’t worry,” he reassures you, “I'm still paying the utmost attention to you.”

 

“Good,” your face clears somewhat, and you turn and go back to your singing. 

 

During your last song- _‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’-_ Mycroft pretends to receive a phone call. He lets out a little tut and looks down at the screen of his phone in mock irritation. He presses it to his ear and lets out a low stream of what is a largely believable nonsense should anyone overhear. Then he comes off the phone with a sigh, lowers it and stands up with a screech of noise that sends you looking over. His eyes barely meet with yours though, before he pulls on his coat, swivels on his heel and hurries out of the café, leaving the folder deliberately where it is. 

 

You falter during your song and almost call out to tell Mycroft about the folder, but he’s gone before you can. As soon as the song is over though you hurry across to the table, your fingers scraping against the edge of the folder as you peer down at it. It’s quite thin and orderly looking, but it’s the yellow post-it note that’s on the front of it that gets your attention. Its got Mycroft’s name and address upon it scrawled in blue ink. Chewing on your lip a little you glance outside. It’s getting late now and it’s dark, the street light casts an orb of light over the pavement, which is still coated in a thin layer of snow and that continues to fall. It’s cold and although you’ve got a coat and plenty of money with you even taking a taxi to the address will be a bit of an ordeal. But Mycroft had said that the folder was important and that the contents needed to be concluded by tomorrow you think. You don’t know what his phone call had been about, but whatever it was had clearly been enough to distract him and make him leave it behind. You should take it to him. Even if he’s not at this address then you can post it through the letterbox with a note or something. You hope that he will be there though because the idea of going back home without even having said a proper goodbye to the man who has definitely made this week far more interesting for you does not appeal. 

 

Making your mind up you slip your black coat on, tug on your white and red patterned gloves, grab the folder and hold it underneath your outer layer, close to your heart. You wish everyone there a happy Christmas, before you scurry out. You stop beneath the over hanging banner and call for a taxi, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably as you wait. Your feet already feel numb and your face is flushed from the cold. 

 

Finally the taxi arrives and you get inside it gratefully, reeling off where you want to go to the driver, before you settle back in the seat and try and get warm. There are few people out, many are already inside with their families and as you pass the houses full of light you smile and wonder what conversations are happening inside them right now. You picture the children that are running about and the stockings that are being hung, before the parents will shepherd their offspring into bed in a state of high anticipation. 

 

The taxi pulls up on the pavement outside the gravel driveway-the snow lying on a bed of black and white stones-of an old Victorian house. You’re thankful to see that the house has some lights on. But the snow flurries have gotten pretty bad now, swirling across the still car with reckless abandon. You get out of it feeling wary, before you pay the driver and make the decision to send him on his way again. Hopefully Mycroft will let you in, so that you can get warm for a couple of minutes, whilst you call for another taxi. In any case you don’t think it fair to make the poor cabdriver freeze whilst he waits for you. 

 

You go across the driveway carefully, taking care not to fall on the thin sheen of ice that you can feel beneath the snow and glance at the house every now and again, taking in the light that is on in the hallway and in the one room to the left downstairs and the simple, but elegant looking wreath that is on the polished black door. You feel happy the closer you get to it and finally you get to raise your hand and knock. You shift from foot to foot and pull the file out from underneath your coat as you wait. By the time the door gets answered the little heat that you’d had from being inside the taxi has gone and your teeth have started chattering. 

 

But what a view you’re granted with! Mycroft, his brow slightly furrowed, has now removed his tie, undone the top two buttons of his white shirt to reveal a brush of chest hair, taken his jacket off to show the maroon braces that lie beneath and shine in the light radiating from the house behind him. You feel the warmth from the house and his presence hit you as he holds the door ajar. 

 

“Ah F/N, what a pleasant surprise,” he murmurs, no doubt drinking in how the black coat you’re wearing has its shoulders lightly splashed with droplets of water from the snow that’s fallen and melted upon it. 

 

“I-I bought you this,” you say, “Y-You left it behind.” You wave the file in front of him, struggling to talk because of the cold that’s seeped into your body and completely taken it over. 

 

His eyes latch onto the folder, before they drift to you again. “Why my dear truly you’re so kind to me. To bring me this and in such weather too. Why I would have gotten into so much trouble if it weren’t for you,” he cries dramatically, taking the file from you as if it’s most precious to him despite the fact that there’s nothing of value in it at all, just a few pages that have words he finds amusing on them. He even goes as far as to kiss you on the cheek and you can feel warmth seeping out from his lips like tendrils. 

 

“Oh, well you said it was important,” you say, half-looking at him as you feel pleased despite his clear over-reaction. You hadn’t saved anyone’s life after all. You’d just brought him a folder. You shift your position, before your eyes move to properly fix on his imploringly. “I know it’s late,” you begin, “But I don’t suppose that I could come in for a moment could I? Just so that I can phone for another taxi? I let the other one go because the driver would have gotten freezing waiting, but”- you break off when Mycroft waves his hands. 

 

“Of course you must come in my dear,” he says, taking your gloved hands with his bare ones and pulling you inside into the hallway. Your body bumps into his and you duck your head. 

 

 _“Oh”-_ you let out a cry of surprised exclamation, hurriedly stepping back and closing the door behind you.

 

Mycroft looks pleased by your reaction. “You mustn't worry about calling for a cab either,” he says, “I can call for my driver to take you back to your aunt’s when you’re ready, but for now you must have a drink with me.” He lets go of your hands and turns around. 

 

“I wouldn't want to be any trouble,” you call after him, your heels brushing against the brown welcome mat that you find yourself on uncertainly. 

 

Mycroft waves a hand as if to say that he won’t hear any more objections from you, before he disappears into a room that’s on the right. You glance around, looking for somewhere to put your coat and perhaps your gloves too, but you can’t see anywhere. There’s an umbrella stand, which is full, but no hanger for a coat, which you find a bit puzzling. Your eyes roam down the hallway for a moment, at where the kitchen is to the back, its door slightly ajar. There’s a steep, narrow staircase on the left layered in a plum velvet carpet. The floor in the hallway is pretty and patterned in brown, black and white tiles. A maroon rug lies on the middle of it. 

 

You move forwards and head into the room that Mycroft had disappeared inside of. You enter a warm, cosy sitting room. A fireplace is in front of you in a black grate, its roaring orange and white flames crackling, whilst a leather settee and snug blue armchair are adjacent to it. Over the fireplace is a black mantelpiece that has a carriage clock sitting in its middle. Whilst next to the armchair is a side table that has a lamp, which provides the only light aside from the fire. An ashtray is also there. You frown. Your father smokes, but you’ve never liked the habit. It often makes rooms and clothes smell and its given your father a dreadful cough, which always gets worse whenever he’s ill. To the left of the armchair sits a tall drinks cabinet, whilst a red, white and black patterned rug lies directly in front of you. Mycroft is moving down it. He’s already put the folder in one of the drawers that are off to the right along with an elegant looking cabinet that has a turntable on top of it. 

 

“I'm sorry, I didn't see anywhere to hang my coat,” you tell him and he whirls back around, his face breaking out of the deep thought that he’d been in as he pondered the best way to conduct the evening. 

 

“Forgive me, I should have told you to simply follow me. I don’t get many visitors,” Mycroft says apologetically. You swallow, once more worried about intruding. He comes forwards. “Here let me,” he says, stopping in front of you and putting his hands upon your shoulders. Your coat lets out a rustle of protest, whilst your heart jolts with altogether something different. He helps you to take your outer garment off, before he holds it with one arm to his chest. Then he lifts your hands one by one and plucks your gloves off delicately, studying the pattern on them as he does so and no doubt trying to remember it in that orderly mind of his. He drapes both the coat and gloves across the back of the settee so that they can get warm, before he gestures to it. “Please,” he says. 

 

You swallow and move hurriedly towards the settee with a nod, perching on the edge of it as if you’re afraid to even touch it. You are in one sense. Your heart is filled with uncertainty. 

 

“Drink?” Mycroft asks, moving towards the cabinet, “I’ve got some sherry.”

 

“That would be wonderful,” you say, shifting your legs together and leaning forwards slightly, so that you can hold your hands out towards the fire. 

 

He frowns a little at you as he organizes your drink and a brandy for himself. “I'm afraid that I left you out on my doorstep for too long,” he says. 

 

 _“Oh,”_ you say, looking across at him. Your eyes sparkle slightly in the firelight. It’s something that Mycroft doesn’t fail to notice. “I'm getting better. Please don’t worry about me.”

 

“Still, I shan't let you leave until you’ve been properly attended to and warmed up,” he says, and as your eyes meet you start to feel warmth pooling between your legs at his determined gaze. You swallow and quickly avert your eyes. 

 

He comes back and hands you your drink, before he goes to sit opposite you in the armchair with his. He sips at it for a time with his eyes on you, before he deposits it on the side table. “Is it to your liking?” he asks, nodding at the sherry, which you’ve only sipped at lightly and which you’re now lowering to the floor. 

 

“Yes thank you,” you nod. 

 

“Then Miss. L/N,” Mycroft says, stretching his long legs out towards you with crossed ankles and sliding down a little more comfortably in his chair, “Perhaps you could amuse me with a tale of your past history?”

 

“My past history?” you ask, feeling puzzled. 

 

His eyes had been nearly closing, but now they properly open to fix on you as he says, “Yes,” with a wave of his hand, “Family, friends.” Once more he’s trying to make you feel comfortable. 

 

“Oh,” you wriggle about in your seat a little, “Well, my parents are into horse racing. They compete professionally”-

 

“That must be interesting,” Mycroft interjects. 

 

“I'm more into music.”

 

“Yes,” he sits up a little straighter and folds his legs properly with his hands on the arms of the chair, “You are aren't you? Perhaps you could tell me about some of your favourite songs? Ones that aren't of a Christmas nature,” he adds hurriedly, shooting you an amused smile as you open your mouth, “I think I know them.”

 

You flush a little, before you go on to do as he wishes. Mycroft leans back in his chair. He slides down a little and closes his eyes as he lets your soft, enthusiastic voice fill his ears up. On occasion you think that he might be about to drop off to sleep and you let out a couple of notes of demonstration from the song that you’re currently talking about. Each time that happens he opens his eyes, smiles at you lazily with those thin lips of his and allows his lids to slip shut again. 

 

The third time it happens though you think that perhaps it _is_ time that you were going. It’s twenty-past-eleven after all and if Mycroft’s on the verge of falling asleep so much already then perhaps you’ve intruded on too much of his time. You take one last glance at his contented face, hoping you’ll remember how he looks now with his eyes close to being shut and a playful smile about his face when you’re apart. You stand. “I better be going,” you announce. 

 

Mycroft gets up so fast that you suddenly wonder if he’d only been _pretending_ to be so tired. Your heart hitches inside your chest. This has rather changed things and you don’t know how to react. Seeing that he’s startled you Mycroft asks, “Must you?” in a more imploring gentle tone. “I have many spare rooms.” You exchange a look. You know that it won’t be the spare room you’ll be sleeping in if you stay now and you’re pretty sure that Mycroft is aware of such a thing too. 

 

Deciding to be more confident just as you had when you’d first met however, you decide to test the situation out when you sing, “I really can’t stay.” You look between him and the door. 

 

Picking up on where your mind’s going Mycroft joins you in song, “But baby it’s cold outside.” He steps towards you with a devilish smile. 

 

You take a step back from him, feeling grudgingly impressed by his voice, before you turn and move around the settee towards the window. “I’ve got to go away.” 

 

Mycroft follows you. “But baby it’s cold outside.”

 

You stop in front of the window and peel part of the cream-coloured curtain back. It’s still snowing outside. “This evening has been”- you begin, looking at Mycroft over your shoulder. 

 

“Been hoping that you’d drop in,” Mycroft almost purrs, dropping his head down to rest upon your shoulder. 

 

Feeling amused, but not wanting him to know just how much you push him away from you with your hand on his face, before you turn to face the front again. “So very nice.”

 

“I’ll hold your hands, they’re just like ice,” Mycroft sings, shifting insistently close to you again, before his hands snake past your waist and reach for your hands. 

 

You whirl around and push him away, beginning to walk back down the length of the room. “My mother will start to worry,” you sing, and she certainly will you think if your aunt contacts her and tells her that you haven’t come back yet.

 

“Beautiful what’s your hurry?” Mycroft trails after you once more. As you look over your shoulder at him to see that he’s got his hands in his pockets and an enticing smile playing about his lips it makes your own lips quirk upward too for the briefest of moments, before you face the front again. 

 

“My father will be pacing the floor.”

 

“Listen to the fireplace roar,” Mycroft gestures to it as you turn back around. 

 

You drape your hand across the back of the armchair, fiddle with the velvet material of it and bite down on your lip sub-consciously as you look at him. He’s stopped just a little in front of you and he’s still looking at you intently. But suddenly you draw your arm away and make towards the door again. “So really I’d better scurry.” You can’t stay. Really it wouldn't be right. You barely know each other. And yet-

 

“Beautiful please don’t hurry,” Mycroft grasps at your arm, sending you towards him. 

 

Your hands come against his chest and you quickly remove them. “But maybe just half a drink more,” you smile at him bravely. For perhaps you _can_ stand to indulge him a little longer. He’s been so good to you this week and you do feel a connection with him after all. 

 

Mycroft bows his head. “Put some records on while I pour,” he nods at the turntable behind you, but wanting to focus on the song that Mycroft and you are caught up in you just go across to the turntable and pretend to put some music on instead. You look across at Mycroft playfully as you do so and he smiles at you from his place by the drinks cabinet, feeling pleased that you’re clearly starting to become more relaxed. 

 

You go back to sit on the settee again, but you soon start to feel uncomfortable as you get taken out of the moment and thoughts of your aunt and mother start to infiltrate your mind once more. “The neighbours might think,” you continue the song absent-mindedly as you look to the clock again. 

 

“Baby, it’s bad out there,” Mycroft reminds you, gesturing to the window with his free hand as he comes across and hands you your drink. 

 

You sip at it. “Say what’s in this drink?” you ask, nearly coughing for whatever is in it it’s a lot stronger than sherry. 

 

Mycroft gives you a mischievous smile as he returns to his armchair. He winks at you as if to say that he had to adhere to the song. He folds his legs. “No cabs to be had out there.” He looks at you intently. 

 

You smile at him and sip at your drink again. It’s so delicious and warm. You know that if you slip back to rest more comfortably you won’t be leaving until morning. “I wish I knew how”- you break off with a yawn. It would be so nice to stay. Stay here and wake up to Mycroft on Christmas morning. But still something in your mind tells you to be sensible about this. 

 

“Your eyes are like star light now,” Mycroft comments, framing his hands like a photographer would, so that he can see through them to your face. You know that they’re just words to the song, but him singing them to you makes you blush nonetheless. 

 

“To break this spell”- you really must try and keep sane, but warmth, comfort and _Mycroft…_ you feel almost drunk with it all. 

 

“I’ll take your hat, your hair looks swell,” Mycroft comes across to sit beside you, stroking at your h/c locks. 

 

Your addled mind recovers enough at his touch for you to turn your head and shift away from him ever so slightly. “I ought to say, ‘No, no, no sir.’” Your heart begins to race. Is this just the song or are you really going along with all this? You’re still not sure. 

 

“Mind if I move in closer?” Mycroft slides across and when his leg touches against yours your heart flips over. Oh God. You can’t go now. 

 

You look back to him. He’s so close now that you can see every detail of his eyes. You can see yourself reflected in their depths as if he’s holding you captive in them as much as he is in this house. Except you’re hardly a prisoner you think because the longer this song goes on the less you feel like protesting. Your eyes look down at his lips and you blush. “At least I'm gonna say that I tried.”

 

Mycroft places a hand on your knee. “What’s the sense in hurtin’ my pride?”

 

You jump up. This is your last chance to be honourable and you have to take it. For the sake of staying on good terms with your aunt if nothing else. You don’t want her to think that you’re just staying with her, so that you can go off and meet nice men. “I really can’t stay.” You move a couple of steps forwards. 

 

Mycroft stands up feeling both disappointed and frustrated. “Oh baby don’t hold out.”

 

You turn and look at him thoughtfully. “Ah, but it’s cold outside.” He’s right. You don’t really want to go and if you can use the cold as an excuse to your aunt and mother then, _well...._

 

Feeling grateful Mycroft steps forwards and takes you in his arms. “Baby, it’s cold outside.”

 

The warmth of his breath sends a shiver of desire through you. But as you think that there’s no way that either your aunt or mother would buy your excuse that you’d just happened to be at a gentleman’s house, it had been cold and you’d decided to stay in his spare room, you persist, “I simply must go.” You push against his chest. 

 

“But baby, it’s cold outside,” Mycroft holds you even tighter, before he begins to duck his head. 

 

“The answer is no,” you manage to wriggle away from him and you turn your back, letting out breath after breath. You’d only just gotten away from him. 

 

“But baby, it’s cold outside,” Mycroft steps closer. You can feel his chest pressing lightly, but insistently against your back and it makes you shiver. 

 

“Your welcome has been”- you look over your shoulder at him, sweeping your hair off to one side with your fingers. 

 

“How lucky that you dropped in,” Mycroft murmurs, placing his hands with a tentative firmness against your waist. 

 

“So nice and warm,” you acknowledge, spinning back to face him. 

 

Seeing the hesitancy that’s still in your eyes Mycroft says, “Look out the window at the snow.” He touches at your arm. 

 

“My sister will be suspicious.” 

 

“Gosh your lips look delicious,” Mycroft murmurs, leaning closer. 

 

You swallow. “My brother will be there at the door.” 

 

“Waves upon the tropical shore,” Mycroft brushes at your hair, before he leans back and pulls a sprig of mistletoe out of his pocket. He holds it above you and you look at him as if to acknowledge that he’s got you now. Very lightly your lips brush against each other’s. 

 

Still, it’s hard enough to make you let out a bit of a groan and attempt to push him back as you pull away from him again. “My maiden aunt’s mind is vicious.” Mrs. Hudson will never believe you, you think and the presence of Sherlock won’t exactly help her to either. 

 

“Gosh your lips are delicious,” Mycroft breathes, still close to you and feeling a little dazed if truth be told. He can feel his lips sparking just from that one gentle touch. 

 

You smile as your mind goes to the next words of the song. As he tosses the mistletoe aside you pick up the ashtray that’s on the side table up and hold it between you. “But maybe just a cigarette more,” you sing coyly, handing it to him. 

 

Mycroft has the grace to look a little embarrassed as he takes it from you. He can tell by your face that you don’t approve. But he quickly recovers enough to sing, “Never such a blizzard before.”

 

You look at him studiously for a moment, before you step back, “I’ve gotta get home.” 

 

“But baby, you’d freeze out there,” Mycroft sings, putting the ashtray quickly down and stepping close to you, before he puts his hands around you beseechingly. 

 

“Say lend me a coat.” You pat just beneath his shoulder. 

 

“It’s up to your knees out there,” Mycroft says, pulling a bit of a face. 

 

You let out a bit of an amused breath, slap at his chest and step back. He comes closer. “You've really been grand.” You press the tips of your fingers against the back of his hand. 

 

“I thrill when you touch my hand,” Mycroft sings and he really does. Just that slight touch from you has sent ripples out across his skin. He wants more. 

 

“But don’t you see?” you step back, holding your clasped hands up to your chest. 

 

“How can you do this thing to me?” Mycroft pirouettes a couple of times dramatically, before he stops to face you again. 

 

After letting out a splutter of laughter you smile patiently at him. “There’s bound to be talk tomorrow.” 

 

Mycroft grabs your hand and places it dramatically to his chest. “Think of my lifelong sorrow.”

 

“At least there will be plenty implied.” You stroke him. 

 

“If you got pneumonia and died,” Mycroft lifts you up and spins you once. You let out another laugh. 

 

“I really can’t stay,” you protest with less resistance once your feet have touched back down on the floor. 

 

“Get over that old out,” Mycroft breathes. 

 

“Baby, it’s cold.” You move closer to him. 

 

He grasps at your hands with his and holds them delicately in between you, whilst you both sing, “Baby, it’s cold outside.” Your faces grow closer together, before you let out a little breath and move your head back again. But in the next moment Mycroft’s kissing you. You release another breath against him and push closer, one of your hands on his waist and the other stroking at his shoulder encouragingly. You force yourself to pull away. “Don’t you have to work on that folder anyway?” you ask. 

 

Mycroft half-eyes you, before his lips go to your neck. You cling onto his shoulders. “That was just to get you here,” Mycroft says in between his administrations. He lifts up his head and looks at you with glittering eyes. 

 

“Oh, you’re a bad man.” Your grip tightens on him. 

 

“I’ll take that as my final compliment,” he purrs.


	2. Warbler We're In Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your relationship with Mycroft hits a rough patch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thanks for your support! :D 
> 
> Enjoy! :D

**One Year Later…**

 

“Oh, the weather outside is frightful,” you sing from where you’re washing up in the sink that’s by the window, “But the fire is so delightful.” 

 

“And since we've got no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!” comes a familiar voice from behind you. 

 

You smile over your shoulder at Mycroft who’s steadily stalking his way around the rectangular wooden kitchen table towards you. He’s got the day off, but he’s still in smart, dark trousers and a blue shirt. You’re in a blue dress to match, black tights and dark flat shoes. You face the front again. “Oh, it doesn’t show signs of stopping. And I’ve brought some corn for popping”-

 

“I’ve never liked corn,” comes a voice very close to your ear and you let out a screech, before you whirl around. 

 

 _“Mycroft!”_ you bat him on the arm, but he looks like he doesn’t much care about your protests if the way that he traps you between himself and the sink with a thin smile on his face and his eyes fixed on your lips is anything to go by. 

 

“The lights are turned way down low, although not low enough for my liking,” Mycroft can’t resist adding. 

 

“Myc you can’t change the words of the song,” you protest. 

 

“I'm the British Government,” he reminds you, “I can do whatever I like.”

 

You shake your head; before you both go on to sing in low, thoughtful voices, “Let it snow. Let it snow. Let it snow.” 

 

“When we finally kiss goodnight,” Mycroft raises his eyebrows seductively at you. You let out a little laugh and dodge as he tries to kiss you, rolling off to the side instead. “You’re teasing me!” Mycroft pouts. 

 

“You’re just upset because you can’t control me like one of your government girls,” you stick your tongue out at him. He makes to grab at your arm, so that he can swing you back, but you just duck underneath his outstretched one and stride off with a big smile on your face instead. “How I’ll hate going out in the storm!” Back at the sink you look over your shoulder to see that Mycroft’s looking sadly at you.

 

“You’re the only girl that I have.”

 

“Keep it that way.” You turn, reach out, grab the collar of his shirt and pull him towards you. His body lands against yours with an ‘oof.’ “But, if you really hold me tight all the way home I’ll be warm!” You deliberately rub up against him. 

 

It’s Mycroft’s turn to play now though and he smiles at you in a toying fashion, before he spins and turns, walking away from you with his hands in his pockets. “The fire is slowly dying, and my dear we’re still good-by-ing.” He turns back to you and raises his eyebrows. “But, as long as you love me so. Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!” 

 

You smile and walk towards him, swaying as you do so. “Oh, it doesn’t show signs of stopping.” You reach him and as you place your hand in his, so that you can start to dance you continue a little wryly, “And I’ve brought some corn for popping-but since Mycroft doesn’t like that it’ll have to be something else instead.” You say that last part really fast and it makes Mycroft chuckle. 

 

“Since the lights are turned way down low. Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!” he joins in. 

 

You do a little spin, before he dips you. “When we finally say goodnight,” you sing together, “How I’ll hate going out in the storm! But, if you’ll really hold me tight, all the way home I’ll be warm!” You straighten up and do several turns together as you finish, “Oh, the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful. And since we've no place to go, let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!” You boom that last one out and collapse in a fit of giggles against Mycroft. 

 

He cups at your cheek and swipes against it with his thumb, before he pecks at your lips. “There’s my warbler,” he says as he pulls back. 

 

You grin. This Christmas will be the first where you’ll be living in Mycroft’s Victorian house with him and you’re sure that it’s going to be the best one ever. 

 

Still, since it’s the twenty-third of December it’s about time that you started packing up the presents you’ve got for Mycroft and so you have to pull yourself away from your beloved, make some excuse because you know that Mycroft will try and spy and interfere if you don’t and go upstairs. You gather everything that you need, before you go to the bedroom that you share so that you can begin your work. You close the door firmly behind you. Mycroft reads downstairs in the sitting room. 

 

As you sit at the old wooden desk that’s on the right and begin to pull the presents out of the paper orange and purple gift bag you’ve been keeping them in, wrapping them up one by one it’s not long before you begin to hum, _‘The Most Wonderful Day of the Year,’_ and of course humming soon turns into a full-blown song with you. 

 

Mycroft, intrigued by the noises he can hear floating down towards where he’s sat, puts the book he’s reading aside and slowly begins to drift upstairs. 

 

“If we’re on the Island of Unwanted Toys, we’ll miss all the fun with the girls and the boys, when Christmas Day is here, the most wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful day of the year!” Mycroft listens to you finish the song, before, seeking your company; he creeps to the room and pushes the door open with a smile. _“No!”_ you wail with a fierce anger, jumping up and coming across to him. “You can’t be here.” You push at his chest, but it’s like trying to move a stubborn horse: impossible. 

 

“I”- Mycroft begins, feeling rather flabbergasted and a little hurt if he’s honest about how adamantly you don’t want to see him. 

 

“I'm wrapping up your presents”- Mycroft’s face clears and his gaze at once goes towards the desk. You make an annoyed sound in your throat. _“Out!”_ you cry, pushing at him even more. 

 

He carries on looking across for a moment, before he peers down at you in amusement. “I'm taller than you. You might not think it, but I can see”- you stomp on his foot. You just want him to shut up and leave. You don’t want him seeing things and ruining the surprise of everything now. Not when you think you’ve done well to keep things a secret this far. Mycroft lets out a little breath at your viciousness and raises his hands in supplication, before he asks, “What am I supposed to do?”

 

You make a frustrated sound, before you reply, “Go back downstairs.” 

 

“But your singing drew me up and in any case I want to spend time with you. That was the whole point of me taking the day off. Couldn't you have wrapped them up before?” Mycroft whines. 

 

“Well I didn't,” you say, feeling annoyed with yourself for not doing so, “But,” you add as Mycroft continues to look at you and your heart softens, “I’ll spend lots of time with you as soon as I'm done I promise.” You tangle your hands with his and push him closer towards the door.

 

“It’s no good now,” Mycroft sighs irritably, tugging his hands away from yours, “I shan't be able to concentrate knowing that you’re up here packing my gifts.” He almost pouts and you raise your eyebrows at him. He can be so childish sometimes. 

 

“Well go for a walk then.” He shakes his head dismissively. “Call your driver and go for a drive. Look at all the decorations everywhere and get into the spirit.” Again he shakes his head. _You’re_ the only one he wants to get into the festive mood with and if you’re unavailable then no one else will do. “Go and see your brother,” you make one last attempt, albeit in a less serious fashion to placate him. Mycroft lets out a snort. You smile. 

 

Such a thing doesn’t last for long though, for Mycroft says, “I think I’ll go into work.” 

 

“But it’s your day off”-

 

“Even so,” he steps back, “There’s always enough to be done and if I'm surplus to your requirements”- he breaks off deliberately. 

 

“Would you stop being so dramatic?” you ask, feeling annoyed with him. “You’re never surplus to my requirements,” you sigh, “Surely you must know that you’re everything that I need, but I just want to get everything nice for you.” You tug at the waistband of his trousers and pull him towards you. “So that you’ll have a nice Christmas,” you add. 

 

“I’d rather have a nice day today,” Mycroft says pettily, removing your hands from him. “To think that this time last year you were giving me compliments too.” He turns away. “How things have changed.” 

 

 _“Myc”-_

 

“I’ll see you later,” Mycroft says curtly, before he heads downstairs. 

 

“Myc please don’t be silly about this.” You hurry after him. 

 

“You know that I hate my name being shortened, so why you’d think _that_ would win me over,” he mutters.

 

“It shouldn't be about winning you over,” you call after him, “It should just be about you being sensible about this.” 

 

He reaches the bottom of the stairs, fetches his black suit jacket from the sitting room, grabs his coat from the coat rack that he’s finally had installed close to the front door, slips it on, picks up his umbrella and leaves.

 

“Myc!” you call as you clatter down and hold the front door ajar. But as he strides quickly down the driveway and away you can’t help but call after him, “It’s nice to know that the British Government’s really being run by a child!” You hope that it will make him come back and argue with you if nothing else. But he only falters for a moment, before he carries on again. You scowl. It’s freezing and he’s so stubborn that he hasn’t even called for his driver, before leaving the house. He’s probably going to call for him on the street corner instead. But if he thinks that he’s just going to swan off to work in a mood then he’s got another thing coming. You duck back inside the house with the intention of putting on your coat, before going after him. 

 

You've barely touched it however when there comes a knock on the front door. Thinking that it’s Mycroft and he’s changed his mind, but still acting cautiously in order to apologize to you, you go across to it with hope in your heart and a smile toying about your lips. Mycroft’s gone off in many a mood since you’ve been dating-often about the silliest of things like how you’d looked too thoughtful once when he’d cooked dinner for you and gotten the impression that you didn't like it-but this is a quick recovery for him. He must be improving you think. 

 

It turns out though that, that’s not the case for when you open the door you don’t find Mycroft there, but rather Sherlock, John and Greg. Your face falters. 

 

“Couldn't you have gotten rid of him any earlier F/N?” Sherlock asks, brushing past you in his long, black coat, blue scarf and dark leather gloves with a cardboard box full of various goodies in his hands. 

 

“Excuse me Sherlock?” you comment indignantly, not appreciating the fact that he seems to think that you should know what their sudden appearance at your door is all about. You swing off to the side and place your hands on your hips as you look angrily at the back of the tousle-haired consulting detective. 

 

“Ah,” John says, in a red Christmas jumper that has blue snowflakes at both the bottom and top of it divided by white lines. He exchanges a glance with Greg whose got a long, dark coat on over his grey suit and rumpled blue and white checked shirt. John looks back at you. “You didn't know we were coming then?” John asks. You shake your head. “Sherlock said that when Mycroft was out of the house you’d agreed to help us all wrap our presents for Molly, Mary and Sally. When he wasn’t out when we first arrived Sherlock made us hide in the hedge until he left.” 

 

You think that explains why all their hair looks particularly messy. John seems to have a dead leaf nesting in his, but, still feeling irked about everything, you’re not about to tell him. Instead you ask suspiciously, “Why did Mycroft have to be out of the house?”

 

“Well, y’know,” John shrugs a little sheepishly, “I think Sherlock’s actually quite good at this wrapping thing, but he didn't want Mycroft seeing that and standing over him smirking all the while.” You swallow. You can see why _that_ would be a problem and you’re glad to have avoided listening to Mycroft and Sherlock squabble as they no doubt would have. “Still,” John says, drawing himself up and the dead leaf flutters to the floor, “We’d appreciate any help that you could give us F/N. A feminine touch that you could provide or”-

 

“Come in,” you say in a weary tone, turning around and heading to where Sherlock has now made a nice little home for himself at the head of the kitchen table. He’s taken his coat, gloves and scarf off and they hang around the back of his chair, which he sits on in his purple shirt, dark trousers and shoes. He’s now taken several things out of the box and is lining them up in size-order. He looks up as you enter. 

 

“Come on F/N,” he says, “I haven’t got all day.”

 

“Do you want my help or not Sherlock?” you ask sassily, feeling annoyed that he’s interrupted you, before you could even come to terms with what had happened with Mycroft. Still feeling upset about it you go across and finger a very nice rectangular bottle of expensive perfume that’s in a black box with a half-moon upon it. 

 

“One of my presents for Molly,” Sherlock says importantly. 

 

“Hm, not bad,” you look at him thoughtfully. Sherlock’s been going out with Molly for longer than you’ve properly known him, but the fact that he can still manage to be what one would almost call tender towards her in between acting like a prat still manages to surprise you. 

 

“Yeah Sherlock’s been making a list all year of everything that Molly’s said she wants and gradually crossing things out if she got whatever it was or changed her mind. He’s very thorough,” John says as Greg and he join you by the table. The doctor folds his arms. 

 

“Unfortunately some of us have only been going out with our partners for three months like me, so I’ve had to do a bit of guessing work with mine,” Greg says in reference to Sally. You smile as he holds up a historical fiction book that he obviously can’t see the appeal to.

 

“Actually I was just packing Mycroft’s. I could bring one or two down and show you all how I do it if you want?” 

 

“Exactly how many presents _have_ you got my brother?” Sherlock asks you suspiciously. 

 

“A few,” you say in a guarded tone, “But he’s deserving of them all.” That’s what you’re holding onto, despite the fact that you’re still smarting with disappointment over your little quarrel with him. You look at John again. “I'm worried that Mycroft’s going to go overboard with mine,” you confess, “So I wanted to get enough so that I don’t look stupid.”

 

“To my brother you must look stupid every day F/N,” Sherlock comments without thinking, still lining the presents up.

 

 _“Sherlock!”_ you say aghast. 

 

John pats at where your hand’s clutching onto the table. “Don’t pay any attention to him,” he says in a low voice. He turns his gaze on Sherlock and says coolly, “It was wrong of you to tell us that F/N had agreed to this when she hadn’t and you could act a bit more grateful now that she’s decided to go through with everything.”

 

Sherlock gives John a look as if to say that he should have really stopped expecting one hundred per-cent perfect behaviour from him by now. John huffs out a breath. 

 

“I’ll go and get my things,” you inform them with a bit of a sigh, turning back around. 

 

When you get back to the kitchen it’s to find that John and Greg are now seated either side of Sherlock and that there are now several small glasses and bottles of various liqueurs and alcoholic beverages upon the table. Spotting a small, but familiar square one with amber liquid inside of it you stop dead. “Where did all of those come from?” you ask. 

 

Both John and Greg open their mouths, but Sherlock says, “We bought them with us,” with averted eyes as his fingers touch at the neatly lined presents. 

 

 _“Oh,”_ you take a hesitant step forwards, before you stop again. “Are you sure?” Sherlock looks up at you coolly and both John and Greg swallow. “Because _this_ one”-you put your things down and curl a finger around the top of the square bottle-“Looks an awful lot like one, which I know Mycroft has in his drinks cabinet.” Sherlock’s lips tighten. “I might be stupid”-you put a hand on your hip-“But I'm not _that_ stupid.” You pick up the bottle and turn around, thinking that you’ll take it back to the sitting room and the cabinet, but-

 

“One drink would be okay though wouldn't it?” Greg asks. You turn around and look at him. “Mycroft surely wouldn't begrudge us _that,_ whilst we do a bit of packing?”

 

Your lips tug down into a bit of a frown. “Mycroft is in a bit of a bad mood today.”

 

“Surprise, surprise,” Sherlock says under his breath with a bit of a flippant wave of his hands. You shoot him a glare. 

 

“One drink?” John pushes. “Just the one?”

 

You eye them all suspiciously. “All right,” you sit down at the table opposite Sherlock and rest the bottle upon it. “Make sure that it _is_ just the one though.” You don’t want Mycroft on your back about this. 

 

Both John and Greg nod. Sherlock doesn’t do anything. You sigh. John begins to pour the drinks. You pull the rectangular blue box of cologne that you’ve bought for Mycroft towards you along with some purple and white wrapping paper that looks like wallpaper. It had cost a fair bit and you’d bought it especially for the occasion wanting to impress your partner. “Right,” you say, flipping the wrapping paper and laying the cologne down on top. You cut the amount of wrapping paper that you need and then begin to demonstrate how you pack. Every now and again you fumble or get tangled with the tape or Sherlock will say that he’d do that bit differently and each time one of those things happens John nudges your glass towards you. You sip at the liquid gratefully each time, before you move on and by the time there’s a decently wrapped present in front of you with none of the tape showing you’re feeling considerably warmer and pleasanter inside than when you’d first started. “Now, I’ve got some bows and things,” you say, your fingers going to pluck at the small tube of bows and ribbon that’s beside you. 

 

“I’ve got a whole box,” Sherlock says promptly, pulling out a large rectangular box from the one that he’d been carrying earlier. None of the various coloured bows are crushed unlike yours because they've each got their own separate compartments as have the sections of ribbon that are off to the side.

 

“Ah,” you say, exchanging a bit of a look with John. _‘Thorough,’_ you mouth, before you reach to drain your glass. John tops it up as soon as you have. You give him a look with narrowed eyes, “I _said”-_ you begin, before you look at Sherlock, his bows and all the presents that are yet to be wrapped up. “Oh stuff it,” you decide, “I need alcohol to get through all this.” The boys look at each other in a pleased fashion. “Right, so anyway, I’ll demonstrate with one of mine”-

 

“I didn't just bring these for fun,” Sherlock pouts. 

 

“No you brought them to show off,” John quips. Greg and you both snicker. 

 

You do the ribbon and then the bow, before the boys begin theirs and as you start on the final one of Mycroft’s that you’d brought down-there are more upstairs-and a larger amount of alcohol is consumed the atmosphere becomes lighter and more laughter is had. 

 

Feeling a little tipsy you finally stop alternating between packing and supervising the boys efforts. You lean back, tilting your head. You begin to hum and the boys all exchange wicked glances with one another. 

 

“Told you she’d loosen up after a bit of alcohol,” Sherlock smiles. 

 

“What’s that?” you lift your head up and blink a little, squinting at Sherlock. Your head feels a little dizzy from how quickly you’d just raised it. 

 

“Nothing,” Sherlock says innocently. 

 

You stare at him for a moment, before you point and grin, “You better watch out Sherly.”

 

“You better not cry,” Sherlock says naughtily, swiping up the first gift you’d wrapped for Mycroft and getting up. 

 

 _“Sherlock!”_ you lunge across the table. 

 

“Better not pout,” John and Greg chorus. 

 

“I'm telling you why,” Sherlock wags a finger at you, before he runs around and darts past you down the hallway. 

 

“Santa Claus is coming to town,” you huff angrily, chasing after him but going a little slower and nearly falling against the side of the hallway at one point because of the alcohol you’ve consumed. You use your hands to steady yourself. “Sherlock Santa doesn’t steal presents!” you call, trying to distract him, so that he’ll decrease his pace. You might be able to catch up with him if he does. 

 

“He doesn’t give you any if you’ve been bad,” Sherlock calls over his shoulder, “And my brother’s _definitely_ been bad”-

 

“No he hasn’t”- you protest. 

 

Sherlock turns around. “So he didn't argue with you and act like a prat, before he left?” he raises an eyebrow. 

 

You stop and pull a face, feeling a bit confused about things for a moment. You don’t need to ask how Sherlock knows about your argument with Mycroft. Not only must he have heard the latter part of it, which had been conducted on the doorstep, but he’d probably seen such a thing on your face from the moment that you’d answered the door. Just because you’d argued though doesn’t mean that Mycroft doesn’t deserve any presents does it? Or that you aren't justified to have the perfect Christmas with him? You swallow. Your brain feels a little too muddled by the alcohol and the situation to think coherently. In the end you just exclaim, “But that gift’s not from Santa it’s from me!” 

 

Not satisfied with your answer Sherlock turns and hurries into the sitting room. You follow after him, coming to a stop by the door. 

 

“He’s making a list, and checking it twice, he’s gonna find out who’s naughty or nice, Santa Claus is coming to town,” both John and Greg sing in a jolly fashion as they follow after you. 

 

Sherlock’s now by the tall tree in the far right hand corner. Mycroft and you had decorated it one evening. All the tinsel is either red or gold and within a certain distance of each other, whilst all the baubles are silver. Everything about it is careful and pristine. You weigh the situation up the best you can in your mind. If you try and grab the present off Sherlock now then you might knock the tree over. Sherlock’s eyes glimmer at what you’ve established and he lightly passes the present between both of his hands as if he’s feeling the weight of it. “They’re both the same thing in my brother’s case,” he tells you, “He barely gets any presents, so yours will replace the ones that he no longer gets from the big man in red.” 

 

“Well, whatever, just give it back,” you demand, stepping forwards. Sherlock wags his finger at you again and makes to move further away from the tree. Deciding to take advantage of the situation you lunge forwards, tackling him around his middle. Unfortunately for you Sherlock twists and shoves you so that you go falling back against the tree. You spring free from it and it wobbles, looking as if that might be the most damage that it has from this encounter. But that turns out to be false hope and a hand grabs you and pulls you back just in time to avoid it as it comes crashing down, sending a flurry of pine needles everywhere and knocking an expensive purple-pink vase off the mantelpiece. It smashes against the floor. All the activity sends the remnants in the fireplace flying up. _“Sherlock!”_ you curse, knowing that the vase had been a gift from Mycroft’s mother. But Sherlock’s already gone out of the room. John, who’d been the one to rescue you, lets go of your hand and you go hurtling after the consulting detective who’s running upstairs. You follow him to the bedroom that Mycroft and you share. Sherlock’s now standing by the desk, his eyes glimmering at you in amusement. He looks towards the bed, teasing you. You realize what he’s about to do a split-second, before he does. “Sherlock, _no!”_ you cry. 

 

“He sees you when you’re sleeping,” Sherlock clambers up on the bed, shoes and all, leaving a fine layer of grime and mud on the white duvet cover that he surely knows Mycroft will hate. “He knows when you’re awake.” He jumps down again. “He knows if you’ve been bad or good so be good for goodness sake!” You hurriedly block the door, before he can leave. 

 

With his one exit blocked Sherlock stands a little away from you at the bottom of the bed, looking at you warily. He shifts towards you tentatively, about to see if he can get around you, but you lunge at him. You both go falling onto the bed. 

 

“Oof,” you say, lifting yourself up by placing your hands on Sherlock’s chest as a noise comes from the door. You straddle the detective who blinks up at you and look over your shoulder to see that Greg and John are taking photos and filming the moment on their phones.

 

“Mycroft would love to see this”- Greg begins. 

 

“Don’t you dare!” you growl, getting off Sherlock with some difficulty-his bones seem determined to slice you-and going to them. 

 

“Relax,” John says, placing a soothing hand upon your arm, “We’re not going to do anything. Come downstairs. You can have another drink.” 

 

“A _drink?”_ you exclaim incredulously, feeling like all you want to do is forget the mess that’s been made and the issue of how you’re going to explain the broken vase to Mycroft, “I need a _whole_ bottle after that!”

 

*

 

Mycroft clambers into the car and feels more settled as he examines the bouquet of red roses that he’s just bought for you. He’s escaped the push of the crowd, which had made him feel almost as if he was going to have a panic attack, he’s got you these and he’s calmed down enough to realize that he’d been silly earlier and to want to make it up to you. How ill mannered and ungrateful he’d been! All you’d wanted to do was pack up his gifts for him. He should have just gone back downstairs like you’d told him to and not been so greedy as to want you to himself all the time. If he’d been better behaved then he could probably be having a nice time with you now and he’s determined to go home and do just that. He pulls his seatbelt on and tells his driver to take him home. 

 

*

 

You feel much better now that you’ve consumed more alcohol and are sitting around the kitchen table again. Sherlock had left the gift he’d stolen upstairs and so the balance of power has been restored and you don’t feel suddenly as bad about the mess or the vase either. You can get through it. You’ll just have a mad tidy up as soon as the boys leave and everything will be fine again by the time Mycroft gets home. Of course a little voice inside your head tells you that Mycroft will still more than likely find out about the chaos that had been caused through the hidden CCTV cameras that are around the house, but you try and convince yourself that what with everything having been tidied up by then it won’t matter so much. “What else have you got inside this box then?” you say, trying to forget about the situation even more. Your words slur a little and you use the table to support you as you half stand up and lean across to look inside the cardboard box that Sherlock had originally brought with him. You prod a few labels aside. “You brought balloons?” you ask. 

 

“And there’s a canister of helium outside, probably still stuck in the bush somewhere,” Greg smiles. 

 

You look at Sherlock again. “Thought that would loosen you up if the alcohol didn't,” he says. 

 

You grin and try to smack him on the arm but you miss. You take out one of the balloons and look down at it. Something both funny and hazy comes to your mind. “Oh my God, now I really want to sing the _‘Chipmunk Song.’”_ All the boys stare at you uncomprehendingly as if you’ve actually lost it. Sherlock takes out his phone instinctively like he always does when in doubt. “They did a version of it on _‘Glee’_ with helium balloons. It was amazing,” you stomp your foot a little in annoyance at them when they still don’t seem to be getting it. 

 

“Don’t talk about that show to me,” Sherlock, being the first one to recover says with a little roll of his eyes. He’s looking up the lyrics to the song you’d just mentioned on his phone. “Molly’s made me watch every season, some episodes twice when I looked like I wasn’t concentrating. I had a nightmare once where a corpse that looked just like Rachel Berry came back to life and started singing, _‘Don’t Rain on My Parade.’”_

 

“One night Mary and I popped around,” John informs you, “And Molly made us watch it with her and Sherlock. Then Mrs. Hudson came in.”

 

“Urgh don’t,” Sherlock groans, “No matter how hard I’ve tried I still haven’t got the image of Molly, Mary and Mrs. Hudson’s rendition of _‘Don’t Stop Believin'’_ out of my head.”

 

“Perhaps because part of you secretly liked it?” You smile. “At least the Molly part of it anyway.” Sherlock flushes lightly and you grin. You might find it hard sometimes to think that Sherlock and Molly are together, but you’re never going to waste an opportunity to embarrass Sherlock. Mycroft would never forgive you. 

 

“Still,” Sherlock says, sliding his phone away and looking up at you, “I guess I _do_ owe you a little for the debacle earlier, so”- he gestures at the balloons. A beaming smile comes over your face. 

 

Sherlock goes to fetch the canister, whilst you teach John and Greg the lyrics to the song. They promise to be enthusiastic so long as you never tell either Mary or Sally about it. You don’t tell them that you’re already thinking of making a disc each for their partners from the CCTV cameras that are hidden around the house. Instead you just promise that you won’t. 

 

Once everyone aside from Sherlock is dosed up on helium and feeling silly after testing out your voices the consulting detective says, “All right you lot!” He stands with one foot on his chair and looks around at you all. “Ready to sing your song?”

 

“I’ll say we are!” you punch the air, giggling once more at your voice. 

 

“Yeah,” John and Greg agree with moderate levels of enthusiasm. You look at them disapprovingly. 

 

“Let’s sing it now! Okay John?” Sherlock swings his head. 

 

“Okay,” John nods, feeling a little out of control. He knows it’s just helium and he’s with friends, but this sensation reminds him of being drugged at the Baskerville Military Base all over again and he doesn’t like it. At least there’s no strange flashing lights interfering with his senses this time he thinks. 

 

“Okay Graham?”

 

Greg’s heart suddenly sinks and you laugh using your hand to cover up your mouth. Greg looks at you as if you’ve disappointed him. Sherlock clears his throat. “Okay,” Greg says regretfully. 

 

Sherlock looks more satisfied. “Okay F/N?” He looks at you. But you’re still focused on Greg, pouting at him sadly. “F/N?” You ignore Sherlock and prod at Greg, mouthing, ‘Don’t worry it’ll get better Greggy.’ Knowing what you’re doing Sherlock barks, _“F/N!”_

 

“Okay!” You jump to your feet and give Sherlock a salute. John and Greg get up too. 

 

Sherlock begins to lead you all to the sitting room and swaying a little drunkenly as you follow after him, John, Greg and you sing, “Christmas, Christmas time is near. Time for toys and time for cheer. We've been good, but we can’t last”-you do a little run on the spot as you come to a halt in the sitting room-“Hurry Christmas, hurry fast.”

 

Sherlock, standing facing you in front of the fallen tree, looks at you all approvingly. 

 

“Want a plane that loops the loop,” John says from beside you, doing a swooping motion with his hands. 

 

“Me, I want a hula-hoop,” you rotate your hips naughtily, causing both John and Greg’s eyes to nearly pop out as they look at you. You nudge at them both with your sides, feeling flattered, but reminding them that you’ve all got partners nonetheless. They clear their throats hurriedly, before they join you to sing, “We can hardly stand the wait. Please Christmas, don’t be late.”

 

“Okay everyone get ready,” Sherlock urges, before he produces a rumbling baritone note for you all to attempt to copy. John does so in an almost perfect fashion. “That was very good, John,” Sherlock says, looking at his friend consideringly. 

 

“Naturally,” John preens, puffing out his chest and putting a hand upon it. 

 

Greg, not wanting to be outdone, does the note next. 

 

“Very good Gabriel,” Sherlock says, not realizing that he’s got Greg’s name wrong yet again. You burst into laughter. 

 

 _“Ah,”_ Greg says in an injured tone. 

 

With a stitch fast developing you bend and clutch onto your side. Sherlock’s tapping foot comes into your vision and you attempt the note breathily. 

 

“Ah, F/N, you were a little flat, watch it.” You’re still laughing too much to care and all of a sudden, in a burst of energy, you hurry out of the room and move upstairs. “Ah, F/N,” Sherlock swivels around and grabs two pieces of gold tinsel from the fallen tree, before he and the other boys follow you upstairs. They catch up to you on the landing, but you just move away from them as your laughter gets worse. John and Greg exchange a slightly out of breath amused glance. “F/N.” Tears of laughter are rolling down your cheeks. _“F/N!”_

 

“Okay,” you straighten up, wiping the tears of mirth from your face. 

 

Sherlock gets you all into a triangle formation with you in front, Greg and John behind and Sherlock at the back of them as he pretends that you’re all his reindeer. You all clutch at the pieces of gold tinsel and hold them up either side of you. But so engrossed in this none of you notice the soft click of the front door opening and shutting, signalling that Mycroft’s home and beginning to get the sense that things are not as they should be as he steps forwards cautiously, puts his umbrella away and carries the bouquet of red roses in his hands. 

 

“Want a plane that loops the loop,” John sings as you all begin to make your way back downstairs again, Sherlock rustling the tinsel as he lifts it up and down. 

 

You almost get giggly once more, but when you see Mycroft standing at the bottom of the stairs your heart gives a painful jolt and the expression on your face soon slips. Sherlock, John and Greg’s hold on one of the pieces of tinsel slackens and you let go of the other one and bring the one you’re still holding forward as you hurry down the rest of the stairs. Mycroft tosses the flowers that he’d gotten you aside in an act of disapproval and they go sprawling messily on the floor. He folds his arms. You swallow. But you try and appeal to his better nature, or at least to his sexual one anyway, when you reach him, loop one piece of tinsel around his waist, so that your bodies will be brought together and sing, “I still want a hula-hoop.” You grind against him with e/c eyes that beg him not to be angry with you. You know that you’ve done wrong. You know that you shouldn't have drunk so much, _or_ carried on drinking after the vase had got broken. But if Mycroft can just go lightly on you-

 

Mycroft tugs the tinsel off himself and pushes you away, before; having second thoughts he grabs at your wrist and leads you into the sitting room. You let the piece of tinsel drop on your way. Sherlock, Greg and John follow miserably after you, the second piece of gold tinsel dangling from Sherlock’s hand and Mycroft’s lips purse as he sees the fallen tree and all the mess. His gaze lingers for a second longer on the remnants of the vase than anything else. Your heart sinks as he lets go of you and you stand in front of him. Sherlock, Greg and John move to stand in a horizontal line behind you. 

 

“I guess the song’s over,” Sherlock mutters, toeing at the rug and throwing the piece of tinsel behind him. 

 

Mycroft looks at him out of narrowed eyes. “Yes, yes it is,” he says. 

 

“It was your girlfriend who wanted to sing it in the first place,” Sherlock tells him, trying to pin the blame all on you. 

 

“Yes, well I’ll be having a word with _my_ girlfriend later,” Mycroft says, looking at you with hard eyes once more. 

 

Your heart sinks, but trying to appeal to him you cry, “Let us sing it again. You’ll like it.” You grab at his arm. 

 

He tries to shrug you off him, “Now wait a minute F/N.”

 

“Why can’t we sing it again?” You swing his arm back and for. You feel sure that if he just lets you all sing it again and maybe even joins in on it himself that he’ll get into the spirit of things and then everything won’t seem so bad. You also don’t want to face what you’ve done.

 

“F/N, stop that,” Mycroft says, trying to pull his arm away from you. 

 

“Yeah why Mycroft?” Greg says with a bit of a mischievous smile upon his face as John and he come closer to you both. 

 

“Gregory, just a minute,” Mycroft mutters, still trying to release himself from your firm grip. 

 

“Mycroft”- John begins. 

 

“Dr. Watson will you stop that? Everyone!” Mycroft huffs and you drop hold of his arm immediately. John and Greg freeze behind you. Mycroft lets out a breath of relief and straightens his suit jacket. “Now,” he says a little breathlessly, looking up at you all again, “If none of you want to take responsibility for all of this mess and clean it up then I suggest that you leave.” John, Greg and Sherlock, all looking like they've got off lightly, scurry towards the door. You try to follow them as they go out of it, but Mycroft blocks your path. “You’re not going anywhere,” he says. 

 

“But you said”- you say at the same time that Sherlock, John and Greg move out of the front door. 

 

“F/N if you go now then you’ll be walking out of our relationship as well as the house. Is that what you want?” Mycroft asks, putting his hands upon your shoulders. You let out a bit of a breath and slump back down. “I hold you entirely responsible for all of this,” he says and you open your mouth, “You let Sherlock in”-

 

“He”-

 

“No excuses,” Mycroft squeezes you, “You must accept that you’ve done wrong and if no one else is willing to then you must clean this up alone. My mother’s vase F/N. That was a gift when I first came to live here.” 

 

You swallow and bow your head with regretful eyes. Mycroft presses at you more lightly and is just about to add to his diatribe when he falters, blowing out a breath instead as there comes a sound in the hallway. Sherlock ducks his head back into the room. You meet his eyes for a moment, before you look down again. Mycroft looks over his shoulder at his brother who eyes you both for a moment. “Just getting our presents,” Sherlock says. He withdraws his head quickly again. 

 

Mycroft’s eyes go back to you, but he doesn’t speak again until the sound of the front door shutting comes once more. “Now,” he says, letting go of you and stepping back, “I'm going to stay in a hotel tonight. I'm sure that I’ll be able to get a room somewhere because of my position and in any case I would rather sleep on the street than see the rest of the devastation that you have caused to this house. All I want from you now is to know that you’ll have cleaned it up by the time that I return late tomorrow afternoon.” He turns away from you. “It’ll be late because at the moment I can’t imagine wanting to face you any earlier than then,” he explains. 

 

 _“Myc”-_ you don’t want him to go. 

 

He ignores you and moves upstairs so that he can pack a small bag. You hear him letting out a curse a moment later. No doubt he’s seen the mud on the bed. Your heart sinks and you go to stand by the sitting room door. 

 

“What on earth have you been doing?” he shakes his head despairingly at you as he comes downstairs with a small, overnight black bag. He knows that you haven’t been doing anything sexual with any of the men, but that doesn’t mean that he’s not disappointed in you. Your mouth opens. “Never mind,” he says, before you can even begin to make an appeal, “I don’t want to hear another word from you. The evidence in front of my eyes that tells of how you’ve let them besmirch the whole house is bad enough.” He stops in front of you and thinks of something else. “Do you know how busy it was in town today? It was absolutely heaving, but I still wanted to get those flowers for you and more than that I was prepared to come home and apologize. But I'm not apologizing now, not like this.”

 

“Myc”- you try to grab at his arm, feeling annoyed with yourself for having this stupid, squeaky voice when you’re trying to have a serious conversation with him and feeling upset that you can’t even properly express yourself because of how intoxicated you are. 

 

 _“No,”_ he pulls away from you and takes a deep, steadying breath, “I’ve told you to be quiet now because what you’ve done today F/N is entirely unforgivable.” Your heart squeezes up in anguish like a fallen leaf that is about to whither and die. “Did you call them over and plan all of this? Was that your revenge for the way that I hurt you? Because if it was then I think you should move out in the New Year”-

 

“No, it wasn’t like that”-

 

He just shakes his head and leaves, taking his umbrella with him. You begin to cry as you stand there in all the chaos. 

 

*

 

It takes an age just for you to get yourself together. For a while you simply sit on the settee and cry, but then slowly you begin to rally yourself and start to get things in order again. Your first port of call-after almost sobbing as you’d picked the flowers Mycroft had gotten you off the floor and then got rid of them-is your bedroom, where you think that aside from changing the duvet cover and bedclothes things should be pretty straightforward. You soon realize though that you have another problem. For Mycroft seems to have taken all the presents you’d bought for him with him. There is still that one in the kitchen of course. But your heart flutters and you look around, as if the presents might suddenly appear and you might be mistaken, but of course they don’t and you aren't. You wonder why he would have done such a thing, but before you can think too much there comes a knock on the door again. Letting out a little breath because you really don’t want to face anyone else today you hesitate a moment, before you go down and answer it. 

 

To your surprise you find Molly, Mary and Sally all standing there. 

 

“John very sheepishly explained to me what had happened, I got in touch with these two and we wanted to see what we could do to help,” Mary explains, eyeing you seriously. She tilts her head consideringly. “Of course we would have sent the men, but as we've established already they’re a lost cause and in any case we didn't want anything else that was bad to happen.”

 

You feel suddenly teary. “T-Thank you,” you splutter. 

 

Molly looks at you sympathetically. “It’s all right F/N.” She puts a hand upon your shoulder, before they all step inside. 

 

“Thanks,” you shake your head, “But I'm not sure that it is. Mycroft’s staying at a hotel tonight a-and he’s really mad, a vase that his mother bought him broke and I think, I-I dunno why, but he took the presents I’d bought him for Christmas with him.” Sally and Mary look at one another. “W-What?” you stammer, looking between them both frantically. 

 

 _“Well,”_ Mary says as delicately as she can, “Maybe he took them with him, so that he can open them early and use them to help make a decision about your relationship.” Your face crumples even more. “But,” Mary waves her hands quickly, “I'm sure”-

 

“I wasn’t even a hundred per cent sure that they were good Christmas presents, but if I’d known that the very foundation of our relationship could depend on them”-

 

“Why don’t we make some tea F/N? Then we can start cleaning?” Molly suggests quickly, trying to get you out of your increasingly gloomy state. 

 

You nod. 

 

*

 

Slowly and bit by bit the house that Mycroft has always kept so pristinely clean comes back to looking that way and after a few hours hard graft things are pretty much as they had been. Feeling grateful towards your friends you bid them a fond farewell, before you get an early night. 

 

*

 

In the hotel room underneath the soft light of the bedside lamp a troubled Mycroft finally reaches down to his bag, which is on the floor beside the bed whose headboard he’s been leaning against for the past two and a half hours and pulls out the bag, which contains your gifts to him inside of it. It is the rectangular, and now slightly scuffed one you’d wrapped in demonstration earlier that he pulls out first. The posh purple and white wrapping paper, which looks like wallpaper has been sealed with a purple ribbon and pale blue bow. A gift tag has not yet been added to it-Mycroft senses that you’d probably been reluctant to do such a thing in his brother’s presence-but he wonders what it would have said if it had been. Slowly he unwraps it to discover a blue rectangular box of expensive looking cologne. A flash of a memory comes to him. The pair of you in bed and the side of your nose close to his neck as if you’d been breathing him in. He swallows, remembering your own scent, which has lately been intermingled with pine. He puts the gift aside, still in its plastic wrapper, and reaches for the next one. To his surprise his fingers pluck out an unwrapped folder. He stares down at it with a furrowed brow for a moment, before he flips it open. His face soon softens, for inside is the sheet music to every song that you’ve ever sung in his presence and to all the private ones that you’ve shared together. At the back there’s a space entitled, _‘The Future.’_ Mycroft sighs and pushes the folder aside, leaning properly against the headboard again. He closes his eyes as memories come back to him. Memories of the first time you’d met, of you singing in the café, of every time he’d called you his warbler, purring it out with such fondness that it makes his heart ache just to think about such a thing because somehow you’d managed to coax that side of him out. He doesn’t think that anyone else could and he doesn’t want to lose you, doesn’t want you to move out, but he feels such sadness and hurt that you’d done such a thing that you knew would have upset him. Yes you’d been a little tipsy and yes he’s sure that his brother had been more to blame than he’d acknowledged earlier, but he’s sure too that Sherlock had not tipped the alcohol down your throat and that you’d been aware enough to know that what you were doing was wrong. 

 

*

 

After a restless night you do some more cleaning, dusting and polishing to try and make the house as nice as possible. You don’t sing as you usually would, whilst doing such a thing-worrying about your relationship with Mycroft has silenced you, made you lose your voice and as you dwell on it you feel even more miserable. In the sober light of day, though you still feel a little groggy, you can see even more clearly just how wrong what you’d done had been. Perhaps Mycroft _had_ been right you think. Perhaps you _should_ move out. Tears prick at your eyes. You’re so different after all. You’d felt as if he was the missing piece to your life, but perhaps things are doomed to fail. He’s mischievous yes, but you’ve always been far more childish than him. Perhaps things are just never going to work. 

 

There comes a knock upon the door. 

 

It’s Mary. She stands there with a red potted plant that she’d brought around because she’d thought that it might brighten the kitchen up. She also hands you a brown and purple paper bag. “This might cheer Mycroft up if nothing else does,” she says wisely, before she departs again. 

 

You take both things into the kitchen and pop them onto the table. You peer into the bag. Inside is a _‘Mrs. Claus’_ outfit that’s so skimpy it makes you blush as you pull it out. The bag also contains sheet music for, _‘Santa Baby.’_ You smile a little when you see it, but it soon dies upon your face. You don’t feel like singing. In fact right now you can’t ever imagine feeling that way inclined ever again. Every song reminds you of Mycroft and every memory hurts too much. 

 

* 

When Mycroft gets home, feeling tentative but determined to resolve things with you he’s surprised to find that the door of the house is locked. He fumbles, swapping his bag to his other hand and keeping his umbrella looped over his arm, so that he can get out his key from his pocket and unlock the door. When he steps inside all is silent. He can’t hear you singing like he often can when he comes home and there is not even any noise from you moving about. “F/N?” For are you there hiding despite the fact that the door had been locked? Or have you gone out? He put his umbrella away and peers into the sitting room. Everything is as it should be. Better in fact. He can’t see a trace of dust and he can tell that you’ve been cleaning hard. The tree and all its ornaments are nearly back in the exact position that he likes them in. Nearly perfect like you, Mycroft thinks. He lets out a bit of a sigh. Where are you? He withdraws his head, drops his bag to the side of the hallway and heads to the kitchen. In the middle of the table there’s a beautiful red plant. In front of it is a white envelope and he goes across to it. Your hand has written his name on its front. Mycroft’s heart shudders in dread. He swipes it up quickly, and, with fumbling hands, draws the letter out. The cream paper makes a rustling noise as he does so. 

 

 _Mycroft,_ you’ve written, _I think you’re right, so I’ve taken my things and moved out._ Tear drops begin to stain the paper from this point on and Mycroft’s heart sinks. _I am sorry that things couldn't work out between us. Sorry too for the devastation I managed to cause to your house and for breaking the vase. I will be staying with my parents until I can get a place of my own in the New Year. I hope it, along with all the years to come, will bring you every happiness. F/N._

 

“No,” Mycroft scrunches the note up and flings it across the kitchen table. It drops to the floor. “You are not getting away from me that easily Miss. L/N. I did not spend all that time frequenting that dreadful café last Christmas just so that you could walk away from me during this one.” He whirls around, strides down the hallway, grabs his umbrella and steps out of the house again. He locks it up, before he goes on his way. 

 

*

 

As he sits in the back of one of his usual black cars a little while later, heading in the dark to the outskirts of the city where your parents live, he feels tired from lack of sleep, a little apprehensive as he thinks of the best way in which he can get you to see sense, but determined to bring you back home. Some people would not bother going after you he knows. Some people would just think you indifferent to all the other goldfish he’s come across and not understand why he should make an effort. Not understand why you’re special. But then all those people can’t know the way that you have caused his heart to lift with every beautiful note. The way that the thought of you and to coming home to you has been the only thing keeping him going some days. 

 

He gets the car to pull up outside the modest, but middle-class brown town house that you’d grown up in. Half an hour away, you’d once told him, are stables where the race horses that your parents are so fond of are kept along with another property, but it is at this one that he knows you’ll be. After all racehorses have never interested you much, so why would you be seeking solace with them? He leaves his umbrella in the car, gets out, straightens the grey suit jacket he’s wearing as part of his three-piece with blue tie, silver tie-pin and white shirt, brushes himself down and knocks smartly upon the door. 

 

A moment later a harried looking woman with graying h/c hair that’s in a bob style answers the door. Evidently she’d just been in the middle of drying up for she’s carrying both a dishcloth and a red bowl in her hands. She wears a green apron on top of her floral patterned top and brown trousers. He thinks that he can smell mince pies cooking behind her and his stomach rumbles. Its been an age since he’s had anything and he’s starting to regret that now. He’s always been at his best with a full stomach and that is, he senses, exactly what he needs to be if he’s going to get you back home. Your mother scrutinizes him with her e/c eyes and Mycroft clears his throat a little. He’s met her a couple of times before and each time he’s been given the impression that she doesn’t know whether to like him or not. “Your daughter informed me that she’d be here,” he says, “May I see her?”

 

She sniffs and straightens up, her free hand holding the door ajar. “She’s said that she doesn’t want any visitors,” she announces. 

 

No, Mycroft thinks, you just don’t want to see _him,_ not consciously anyway. The fact that you’d told him your location in your letter tells him otherwise though. He knows that he might be able to make you smile again and he hopes, that as he does something unusual for him and begs, “Please,” that your mother might understand that too. 

 

She looks at him for one long moment, before she lets out a sigh. Slowly she lets the door open more and steps aside. “Upstairs. First door on the right,” she tells him, no doubt hoping that she won’t come to regret this.

 

“Thank you,” he looks at her gratefully, before he moves past her, takes in the cloud of smoke that seems to be coming from your father’s cigarette in the kitchen along with a hacking cough and hurries upstairs on the red stair carpet. He slows when he comes to the landing and sees the relevant door. He would have known it was yours even if your mother hadn’t told him because a gold Treble Clef has been etched onto it. He swallows and his hands fidget as he stops before it. This is it. The result of what happens here when he enters this room will be more important to him than any work meeting or matter of government that he’s previously attended. He must get it right. He hears a slight noise and wonders if you can sense that someone’s there. He swallows again. “F/N?” Silence. He pushes the door tentatively open to see that you’re sitting on your childhood bed, which is covered in a purple duvet. You’re in a light grey hoodie with jeans and multi-coloured stripy socks that have a hole in one of the toes. Even with your hood up, which you pull down reluctantly when he enters, revealing how your h/c hair is twisted to one side and hanging down off your shoulder, your legs drawn up to your chest and your back against the headboard you look attractive to him. A beauty with those wary eyes. He looks around the room for a moment. It is exactly how he would have pictured it had he ever tried to imagine such a thing. Items relating to music lay all around-a silver music stand, a pile of books and bare pages of sheet music lay on the desk opposite him by the window as if you’d left them there just so that you’d have a part of you there whenever you visited. Though the walls are bare they are dotted with blu tack and he can imagine that posters of your favourite musical inspirations had once lay there. He spots a selection of cuddly toys, some of them shaped like musical instruments and notes that have faces on that are taking up a pouffe close to your desk and he smiles for a moment. Smiles because this room is so genuinely you that it causes a pain inside his chest. He realizes in that moment, more clearly than any other that he doesn’t know what he’s going to do now if you won’t come back with him. He needs you in his life. He needs that contrast of light that you bring. He looks back at you, steps inside and pushes the door shut behind him with fumbling fingers. He clears his throat. Still you don’t say anything. Knowing that it’s up to him he attempts to sing, “I'm dreaming of a white Christmas.” It comes out rather flat and you let out a bit of a snort, which pains him, but he looks at you hopefully nonetheless, wanting you to show him how it’s done and continue the song.

 

“I don’t feel like singing,” you mutter, turning away from him and moving to sit on the edge of the bed, so that you’ve got your back to him. Your fingers curl around the duvet, clutching at it for support. 

 

“That’s never happened to you before,” Mycroft murmurs in a voice of soft concern, coming around to sit beside you. He leaves a little gap in between you, but lets his hand rest there in that space as if he’s telling you that he’s there for you if you want him. 

 

“Perhaps it should have,” you say in a loud, bitter tone. Mycroft has never heard you sound so venomous before. As if knowing such a thing you swing your head away from him. He opens his mouth and his fingers twitch. “I shouldn't be singing all the time,” you go on, “It’s childish. It ruins things.” You look at him as if you expect him to applaud your words. 

 

“We are both capable of being childish,” Mycroft gets out a little guiltily. Knowing that he’s referring to yesterday and in his own way trying to apologize for it you smile for a brief moment, before your face becomes more serious and thoughtful once more. Not liking how sorrowful you look Mycroft just frowns, before he tells you gruffly, “Singing is who you are. You should not apologize for it. You wouldn't be you without it.” He covers your hand up with his. 

 

“But it’s what messed up everything,” you get out, still struggling. 

 

“And it’s also what brought us together. It’s one of the reasons that I love you,” for he still does he knows. 

 

 _“But”-_ you falter. 

 

Mycroft smiles gently at you, knowing that you’re wondering how he can still love you after you’d ruined his house only yesterday. “I don’t want you to change,” he tells you. His hand runs through your hair and down to your cheek.

 

“It was an accident,” you blurt out hurriedly, before you look at him more tentatively. 

 

“An accident that has been beautifully fixed,” Mycroft murmurs, his fingers tracing the side of your neck, before they curl around the back of it. “Just like I hope things between us can be.” 

 

“But your mother’s vase”-

 

“I never liked it anyway,” Mycroft says and you let out a bit of a laugh at that, before you cut it off suddenly when you realize just how close your faces are. You can see the determination in his eyes and feel his breath brushing delicately over your mouth, before he draws his lips down to yours. You run one of your hands through his hair and have the other scrunched against the duvet. You push closer as one of his hands curls around your waist. He’s leaning over you and nearly making you lose your balance and fall back down onto your bed when the sound of your bedroom door opening comes, followed by a disapproving noise and the vivid smell of mince pies.

 

Mycroft and you spring apart, you straightening up with a little breathless giggle and adjusting your hair as Mycroft smiles. You both turn your heads to see that your mother is standing there with a platter full of mice pies. 

 

“You looked hungry,” she tells Mycroft in explanation for her sudden appearance. Her expression is a cool one. 

 

“Ah, thank you,” he says a little embarrassedly and the pair of you swing around, so that you can sit on the other side of the bed, before you accept the mince pies. You offer one of them to Mycroft. He takes it with a bit of a smile and bites into it eagerly. 

 

Your mother steps back with a bit of a sniff. “I’ll leave the door open,” she says. 

 

“Mum we’re not five”-

 

“If you want to act any older then you can leave this house,” she tells you. 

 

Mycroft and you look at each other, both knowing what the answer will be.


	3. Santa Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mycroft and you get home the fun can finally begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone! ;)

“What’s that?” Mycroft asks, pointing at a bag that’s partly sticking out from underneath the bed when you both get home. 

 

You inwardly curse yourself when you see it. You’d managed to fit the bag standing up beneath the bed, but it must have toppled over onto its side. “One of the things in it is a present I wrapped up for you. It was in the kitchen when you came back yesterday.” You pause, wondering about all the other presents you’d gotten for him and whether he’s seen them. 

 

He bridges the gap between you and takes your fingers with his. “I’ve seen the cologne and the sheet music and I'm very grateful for them both,” he says.

 

“You haven’t seen everything?” you check. He shakes his head. “Good,” you say, stepping back from him and letting out a little breath. “At least not everything’s been ruined. Although”- you break off, your focus going to the bag. “I suppose it wouldn't hurt if you received that one early too. It’s kind of appropriate after everything we've talked about tonight.” Mycroft sits down promptly at the bottom of the bed. His shoes are off and he suddenly looks adorable. His expression is all eager as he waits for his present. You laugh and move to pick the bag up. Mycroft makes to lean forwards and tries to peer inside it as you draw it up. “Nosy,” you push him back. Mycroft’s face transforms into an innocent expression at once and you shake your head. Slowly you pull the present out and give it to him. 

 

Mycroft takes it from you curiously, noticing that what with it being small and square it’s smaller than the cologne although its been wrapped up in almost the same manner, but with no ribbon this time. He undoes the fastenings to reveal a small black box that has gold edging around it. He looks hesitantly at you, suddenly worried that he might have helped to spoil a big moment. It is a relief to him to see that instead of an engagement ring two Treble Clef gold cuff links are inside it when he flips it open. “Oh F/N,” he breathes in delighted astonishment. He looks up at you. He does want to get married to you, but not yet, and he thinks that this is the perfect present for now. 

 

Despite his enthusiastic reaction though you shift from foot to foot awkwardly. “I know that they might not be suitable for work, but I thought that maybe you could wear them from time to time? Y’know when you come to watch me perform and stuff?”

 

“Damn their suitability,” Mycroft smiles at you in a determined fashion, “I shall wear them as and when I wish. They’re beautiful.” He closes the box and puts both it and the wrapper aside. “Thank you,” he leans forward and you bend, so that you can share a brief kiss. When something that is still awkward lingers about your face however he asks, “What else is in the bag?”

 

“Oh, um,” you step back from him hurriedly, fumbling with the bag. “Mary er brought an outfit and some sheet music around. She said that I should use them if you were still cross with me.”

 

“An outfit?” Mycroft raises an eyebrow. 

 

You blush. Typical of him to focus on that. “Um yeah.” You hold the bag out to him at last. 

 

He takes one look inside it, before he leans back, blinking a little in a flustered fashion and says, “Well, I know that we've already made up, but I do love watching you perform, _especially”-_ he looks particularly naughty now-“In private. Perhaps you could go and change into it and I could put on my new cuff links?” 

 

You let out a little breath, before you nod. You swivel around and grab a couple of things out from the wardrobe, before you head to the en-suite. 

 

*

 

You look at yourself in the bathroom mirror. God this is so embarrassing. You get the sense that Mycroft won’t mind how you look too much, but you do. You've never worn anything so risqué and you feel practically naked. You swallow a couple of times, take a deep breath and flick your loose hair behind your shoulders, before you put the Santa hat on, hooking the strap of it underneath your chin, so that it will stay in place better. All right. You can do this. You swivel and march out of there. Your black heels clack a little against the floor. 

 

Mycroft, who’d been lazily reclining at the bottom of the bed, his back almost brushing against the duvet, and who is now wearing a black tie, trousers and socks with a white shirt and your cuff links that gleam in the low light, turns his head and his lips part at the sight of you. Along with the Santa hat you’re wearing a low cut and short sleeved red jacket with white trim that squeezes your breasts together, a black belt with gold buckle, red shorts with that same white fur trim and black tights and heels. Apart from the tights, which he wishes you hadn’t put on you look more perfect than the most splendid of Christmases and he feels like he’s just been run over by Santa’s sleigh. 

 

“Yeah, um, it’s a bit”- you gesture to yourself. 

 

“A bit wonderful,” Mycroft murmurs, still feeling dazed as he looks at you. 

 

You blush and grin, feeling pleased. _“Oh,”_ you step closer to him, strutting a little as you see his eyes on you, “That’s what you think is it?” 

 

“Mmm-hmm,” Mycroft says approvingly, still looking you up and down. 

 

“Well then,” you flick the bottom of your hair, before you sit on his knee, “Santa baby do I have a treat in store for you tonight.” Mycroft’s hand curves around your side, holding you to him. You tap at his nose, lean back and kick your legs out a little. “Santa baby, just slip a sable under the tree for me.” You get up, face him, run your hands down your body and roll your hips a little. Mycroft can’t take his eyes off you. “Been an awful good girl. Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.” Mycroft stands. You smile at him flirtatiously and the pair of you circle each other with intense, lustful eyes for a moment, before you stop and face one another. You bend your leg, brushing your knee against him and clutching onto his tie as you sing, “Santa baby, a fifty-four convertible too. Light blue.” You let go of his tie and spin around, looking over your shoulder at him. “I’ll wait up for you, dear. Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.” Mycroft steps close and puts his hands upon your waist. You turn back around, splaying your hands upon his chest and pushing him back slowly to the bed until he drops down upon it. You let out a little giggle as you land on top of him. “Think of all the fun I’ve missed,” you toy with his tie, brushing it against the side of his face and tickling his nose with it. “Think of all the fellas that I haven’t kissed.” You peck him on the forehead and wriggle against him, before you peel yourself off him. “Next year I could be just as good,” you bounce off the bed, “If you’ll check off my Christmas list.” You turn back to face him as he sits back up. You brush back your hair and use your curled hand as a fake microphone. Your other hand rests on your hip. “Santa baby, I want a yacht and really that’s not a lot,” you pop your hip out to the side. “Been an angel all year”-Mycroft smirks at that-“Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.” Your body rolls and you thrust your hip out on the other side. You eye Mycroft for a moment, before you move to crouch down in front of him. You stroke at his sleeves and cuff links and slide your hand under each one to feel his pulse. It’s elevated. “Santa honey, one little thing I really need the deed.” You straighten up, take a couple of steps and turn before you crouch again. You tilt back and extend your leg in between you, brushing it against the carpet. “To a platinum mine.” You look at him and flutter your eyelashes. His lips are slightly parted. “Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight.” You get up and do a little wriggle as you stretch. “Santa cutie, and fill my stocking with a duplex. And checks.” You walk like a model would towards him, crossing one leg in front of the other. You perch on his knee again. “Sign your ‘x’ on the line.” You draw a cross on his chest with the tip of his tie. “Santa cutie, so hurry down the chimney tonight.” You shift your position so that you’re straddling him. “Come and trim my Christmas tree with some decorations bought at Tiffany.” You push him down onto the bed again. “I really do believe in you.” You run your hands over his chest as you lie on top of him again. “Let’s see if you believe in me.” You blow a little teasing breath over him. He rolls you around, so that he’s now the one on top of you. He makes a little satisfied growl as he does so. Your cheeks are rosy as he stares down at you, your eyes sparkling, and the bauble on the Santa hat flops down towards your head. You roll him back just as quickly. “Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing. A ring. I don’t mean on the phone.” Mycroft lets out a weak chuckle. He can tell just from the way that you’d sung that, that you know exactly what had been running through his mind earlier when he’d first seen the small box. Luckily for him he can also tell from the quirk of your eyebrow that you don’t mind. One day you’ll get engaged and married. You’ll do it all. But for now there’s this and _this_ is perfectly fine with the both of you. “Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight. Hurry down the chimney tonight.” You let out a little breath. “Hurry tonight.” Your words have barely faded from the air, before Mycroft rolls you over again.


End file.
